by William Oday
It was part of his legend.
Other members, even shot callers of rival gangs, thought he was crazy to give the cops a detailed report of his crimes. Captured in indelible ink right on his skin. If only they could pin one on him and break the code of hieroglyphs. The white wife-beater he wore covered yet more history scrawled across his chest and back.
Cesar had only two unmarked areas of skin left on his upper body, his palms. Elio knew the story. It was gang lore that he was saving those for anyone who double-crossed him. He would kill the traitor and the traitor’s family with his bare hands, and then ink the retribution on his palms.
Nobody wanted to end up inked there. Nobody wanted their mother, brothers or sisters to end up there either.
Cesar smacked Elio on the shoulder and his body shook with the blow. Even in jest, the projection of dominance and aggression was obvious. Elio’s far lankier form absorbed the impact and he stumbled to maintain balance.
“Come by tonight,” Cesar said. “Be good to meet some people.” He looked back to the lieutenant behind his left shoulder, Ernesto, Evil E as he was called. Attack dog was more like it. He was short and square, with thick muscles that made him look even shorter. A deeply pitted face that made the surface of the moon look smooth.
“Evil’s sister’s comin’ round. Man you up to tap that.”
Elio caught a look from Evil. A look that said he would bleed if he laid a finger on her.
Cesar laughed loudly, enjoying the prospect of his trained personal pit bull disemboweling Elio.
Running with wolves was delicate business. Weakness would get you killed. But a contest of strength could do the same.
“Nah,” Elio said, “everybody knows that skank’s got the itchies. I wouldn’t touch that with E’s pole.”
It was a risk. Insulting a lieutenant. Even in jest, it could end in an emergency room visit.
Evil practically vaulted over Cesar to get at him, his face a twisted grimace of ugly rage. Cesar’s massive arms whipped out and wrapped him in a bear hug. The veins in his biceps bulged as Ernesto struggled to get free.
“I’m gonna kill you, chavala!”
Cesar’s other lieutenant, Cuts, stood behind his right shoulder chuckling, his long, lanky limbs shaking with glee. His grin deformed the ragged tapestry of white scars that lined his face. His arms were similarly covered. Cuts was a twisted piece of work. He loved getting sliced up almost as much as doing the slicing. Almost, but not quite. Nothing gave him more satisfaction than watching an enemy fall under his blade.
He raised a wicked looking knife, and his slender fingers caressed the razor edge. “This cholo’s got huevos grandes. Maybe we oughtta cut ‘em off.”
Cesar narrowed his eyes and whispered into Evil’s ear, “Tranquilo, carnal. Don’t eat the fresh meat ’til it’s had a chance to char.”
Evil finally relaxed and Cesar released him. Quick as lightning, Evil slashed a right cross and caught Elio across the face.
Elio spun around and fought to keep from hitting the asphalt face first. He slammed down on one knee with a hand extended to stop the fall. Bright pain shot up his arm, the bite of a few slivers of glass in his palm. Blinking hard, he struggled to settle the wobbling world. The sharp bite of copper gushed hot and sticky into his mouth.
Uh oh.
Maybe that was too big a risk.
Cesar roared with malignant approval. “Mis lobos tienen hambre!” He punched Evil in the chest, a message that simultaneously communicated appreciation and also a boundary. A warning not to cross his word again.
Elio swallowed blood and tried to breathe through his nose. Guttering blood washed into the back of his throat and he gagged. He spat it out and was about to stand when he heard a rumble from the other end of the alley, back toward the road.
A cacophony of phones sang with an incoming text.
Elio looked up and saw an old tan and copper Ford Bronco, riding high on enormous tires, charging toward them.
Great.
Like things weren’t bad enough already.
16
MASON headed to pick up Theresa. As much as he tried, he couldn’t get his earlier conversation with Maria out of his mind. If only she’d let him be a part of Elio’s life. He wasn’t trying to replace his father. He just wanted to be a friend. Someone who cared.
Max stuck his head forward from the back bench seat and licked Mason’s cheek. The wet tongue snagged on his skin highlighting that he hadn’t shaved today. One of the pleasures of a day off.
One of too few lately.
The bullmastiff’s large head filled the rearview mirror so Mason pushed him to the side and scanned his immediate surroundings. All clear.
He gassed the Bronco and accelerated toward the intersection where the accident had occurred that morning. What a mess that was.
Not wanting to revisit it so soon, he took a right on a side street and elected to take smaller streets. He wound through a number of turns and was about to call Beth when something caught his attention.
Down an alley to his right, a group of kids surrounded a kid on the ground. The one on the ground looked to be bleeding. Mason noticed that the hump halfway down the alley shielded them from any normal height vehicles.
His Bronco, however, had an unobstructed view. He rolled down the window to see if he could hear anything that might offer any intelligence about the situation. It didn’t, but the extra moment of observation did show him that the boy on the ground was Elio Lopez.
And he had taken a beating.
The perpetrators were clearly a band of the local thugs that infested Venice like a bad case of termites. Constantly chewing on the sturdy supports of the community. Doing their level best to hollow it out and make it unlivable for regular folks.
He wasn’t the type to go looking for trouble. But he wasn’t the type to shy away from it either. And right now, Elio was in danger.
Mason noticed another guy positioned at the street corner. The lookout. The guy tapped his phone as Mason hooked a right and turned into the alley. He dropped a few gears and slammed the gas. The engine growled with an ear-splitting roar. Every head at the end of the alley swiveled in his direction.
The Bronco charged down the narrow corridor and skidded to a stop meters away from the biggest thug in front. Before jumping out, Mason unconsciously patted the reassuring lines of the Glock 19 tucked safely into his King Tuk IWB holster. He’d carried for his job every day for over a decade and never found a more reliable, more comfortable combination.
He turned to Max and whispered, “Stay, Max.” He didn’t want him involved. There were too many variables already. He jumped out and slammed the door shut.
Before his feet hit the ground, he measured and categorized the threats facing him. Eight V10 gang members. The one in front was clearly a dangerous individual. That must be Cesar, the shot caller. Mason had heard Elio mention the name before.
If he had to use force, that one would go down first. He quickly prioritized the remaining targets and decided on a course of action.
These weren’t your typical threats. That was clear. Projecting power and bluffing the use of force wasn’t going to impress them into submission. He’d try the path of peace first, as he always did. He just didn’t think it was going to get him far with this particular crew.
He didn’t want to engage in a close-quarters gunfight with eight opponents. They weren’t impossible odds, despite the lopsided arrangement. But Elio would be caught in the crossfire. And getting him killed was the worst possible outcome.
Mason bladed his body to the group to present a smaller target and kept his right hand loose and ready to go for the pistol at his hip. At the same time, he plastered a smile on his face.
One he didn’t feel in the least. One he was sure came off exactly as intended.
17
Mason inspected Elio and saw he was bleeding but not seriously injured. He looked back to Cesar and approached to within a few feet. Max barked and g
rowled from inside the truck. That was good. It would give these thugs something to think about. Nobody, no matter how tough they claimed to be, didn’t think twice about taking on a hundred and twenty pounds of raging bullmastiff.
Several of the soldiers behind Cesar made a move for weapons they must have had tucked under shirts and jackets. Mason cleared his shirt and was an impulse away from drawing down and tapping a couple rounds of Hornandy Critical Duty ammo into this idiot’s chest when the bulked-up monster spread his hands and lowered them with the palms down.
“Tranquilo, carnales,” he said. “Let’s see what blanco wants first. Maybe he’s here to take a pizza order or something.”
Mason studied the primary threat without breaking their locked gaze. No weapons in sight, if you didn’t count the shredded muscles and malignant look in his eyes. Doubtless he had a pistol tucked into the small of his very large back.
Judging by how Cesar’s dark pants were cinched up high around his waist and the way the outsized bulk of his shoulders and biceps spread his arms, Mason knew Cesar’s draw would be slower than his own. A draw down between the two would end only one way. The remaining threats were less certain.
That was a last resort, however.
“So, what you want? Wanna do a beer run for us?”
Mason maintained slow, even breaths, consciously controlling his heart rate and adrenal response. Some fear was good to keep you switched on. Too much was bad as it destroyed your fine motor control. He’d read numerous accounts of close protection officers who had been in gunfights they should’ve won but didn’t. He knew you couldn’t miss fast enough to win.
Mason ignored the question and tossed a question at Elio. “You okay?”
Elio staggered to his feet, pinching his nose to staunch the bleeding. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Cesar’s eyes held Mason’s, unblinking and unwavering. “See hero? Everything’s all good here. Why don’t you run back to the golf course or—”
“I can’t help but notice he needs medical attention. I’ll take him to get that looked at.” He stepped to the side, toward Elio, with his hand out to help steady him.
Cesar stepped forward on an intercepting course. “Nobody called the cavalry. You best turn around and gallop off while you can.”
“I’m not leaving without him.”
“You might not be leavin’ at all,” Cesar said as his arms flexed and veins slithered under his skin like snakes under silk.
“Dust him,” said a squat brick of a human with an acne-scarred face.
“I say we slice him up, eat his heart for breakfast,” said a tall, lanky one with thin, white scars all over his body.
The two lieutenants fanned out behind their leader, grabbing space for a fight.
So this was it.
Mason didn’t want a gunfight, but he knew that some level of violence was required. And when it was required, it was always better to act first.
The movies always had the good guy drawing fire or getting punched first before responding. In real life, that got you killed. If you had to take action, you didn’t wait to be a gentleman about it. You hit first, with everything you had.
Mason pulled his hand away from his side and held both up in front, open with the palms out. He took a step forward and shrugged, doing his best to appear non-threatening.
“I’m not here to make trouble, Cesar.”
Using his name had the intended effect. The surprise registered on Cesar’s face and left him in an instant of indecision.
That was all the opening Mason needed.
As the last word left his lips, Mason’s right hand shot forward on a twenty-inch collision course with Cesar’s nose. At the last instant, the target’s head dropped. The blow should’ve glanced harmlessly off his crown, probably breaking a few of Mason’s fingers in the process. It didn’t though, because Mason had curled his arm back, dropped his torso, and slashed up with an elbow already inside the target’s guard.
The hard bone smashed into Cesar’s nose. A sickening crunch and a hot spray of blood let Mason know he’d hit his mark. He stepped to the side as a glint of steel shot through the space where his stomach had been an instant before. He snatched the huge hand in mid-air and torqued it upside down with a vicious jerk of his left arm. The force would’ve snapped the wrist of any normal human being. It got the shot caller’s attention.
The knife clattered to the pavement as Cesar grunted in pain.
Mason kicked it away and released the wrist lock. With his right hand, he drew his service pistol and backed up a few steps, his trigger finger lightly along the slide, ready to curl in and empty fifteen rounds at point blank range.
“Nobody move! Kid, get in the truck,” Mason said.
“You should leave,” Elio replied.
Cesar straightened up, rubbing his injured wrist, glaring at Mason. “You’re dead, hero. Dead.”
“Get in the truck!” Mason shouted.
Elio walked over, still pinching his nose, opened the passenger door and hopped in. Max immediately stopped barking and jumped on Elio with a barrage of licking and whining.
Cesar’s eyes narrowed as he watched. No concern at all about the river of blood pouring down his shirt. He looked around at the soldiers ready to draw down and die if he gave the word. He locked eyes with Mason. “Use that and you won’t walk away from this.”
“Maybe, but I’m positive you won’t.”
The barest glimmer of uncertainty flashed in Cesar’s eyes before they hardened again.
“Time to leave, blanco,” he said. “While you still can.”
Mason measured the truth of his words. He saw something in those eyes. Not fear. But as tough as this guy was, he didn’t want to die. And he absolutely would if the bullets let loose.
Mason backed away slowly toward the driver door, his aim never faltering. He rolled the window down and switched the Glock to his left hand. He extended that out the window as he closed the door. The front sight never wavered. He’d trained extensively with offhand drills and was nearly as confident on his left side as his right.
Cesar spat blood on the ground and snarled at Mason through the front glass. “You’re dead. Your family is dead.”
A threat. One Mason knew wasn’t an idle one. But what could he do? He didn’t have the legal backing to kill him. The use of justified deadly force was an unforgiving legal doctrine in California. Killing him to prevent some vague future threat would go absolutely nowhere in court.
Mason threw it in reverse and slammed the pedal down. The V8 howled and the Bronco lurched backward, retreating up the alley.
His life had just gotten a lot more complicated.
18
Mason wanted more than anything to call Maria and let her know what happened. But in the end, he’d dropped Elio off at his apartment with a promise to check in later.
He wondered if Elio would tell her, and if she would blame him for the whole incident. Like it was Mason’s fault that Elio was there in the first place.
And maybe she wouldn’t be wrong about that.
He filled a glass from the kitchen faucet and turned to the muted TV on the counter. He clicked up the volume. What he saw didn’t seem real.
The local news had an intrepid, and perhaps insane, reporter broadcasting live on the edge of a massive forest fire. He stood in the middle of a closed I-5 highway. Work crews in blue jackets drove trucks and cranes, moving Jersey barriers into place across the lanes. Drab green military vehicles dotted the road in both the northbound and southbound directions.
Off the road on both sides, and no more than a few hundred feet behind the reporter, Douglas Fir and Coulter Pine crackled in a hell fury. An explosion ignited with a boom and the correspondent ducked like a mortar had just hit. Emergency vehicles in the background went about their business as if nothing happened. Big, white block letters on blue jackets read FEMA.
The Federal Emergency Management Agency.
The federal government never re
sponded to the innumerable fires that California endured every summer. The largest wildfire ever recorded was still handled by state and local agencies. It happened in San Diego in 2003 and burned over 250,000 acres. Before it was contained, three thousand homes and fifteen lives were lost. No federal agency assisted in that operation.
The presence of FEMA didn’t necessarily make Mason feel any better. Not after the calamity that followed Katrina. Not after a number of smaller incidents that told similar stories of ineptitude and corruption. It did tell him something though.
This was no ordinary forest fire.
The more he looked at the screen, the more one thing in particular struck him. There was not a single local or state authority mixed in with the menagerie of federal vehicles and personnel. Not one state trooper. Not one engine from a local fire station. It appeared to be entirely composed of federal resources.
Mason clicked the volume louder.
“…Never seen anything like it,” the reporter glanced behind him, “Mandatory evacuations have been announced throughout the San Fernando Valley. All northbound traffic on the five, the four-oh-five, and the two-ten have been shut down. Vehicles are being turned around and sent back south toward Los Angeles.”
The anchor in the studio cut in, “Tom, has FEMA indicated why they are involved in the containment effort?”
“No official word from anyone yet, Tyrone. All we know so far is that the fire is zero percent contained and has got to be the largest wildfire this state has ever seen.” He coughed and spit off-camera.
“Sorry, the air is full of ash.” He spat again. “Los Angeles is fortunate the prevailing winds are blowing north right now. Otherwise, the city would be covered in smoke and soot.”
“Thanks for keeping us informed, Tom. Stay safe out there. Next we turn to—“
